The Fourth of Seven
by HaloFin17
Summary: Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/Silmarillion crossover. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**Author's Note: **Apparently this is what happens when I read Shakespeare and Tolkien simultaneously: another ambitious crossover project. Oh, full of quotes and comparisons is my mind! What in the literary world have I gotten myself into? Familiarity with the works of both authors is highly recommended, as this fanfic won't be spending much time on backstory. For Shakespeare's characters, I visualize those from the recent "Hollow Crown" series with Tom Hiddleston as Prince Hal and Joe Armstrong as Hotspur. I love their dramatic foil!

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 1**

Henry, Prince of Wales did not feel the cold or the damp or the wounds upon his person. A spear had found his shoulder early in the Battle of Shrewsbury, and now Henry Percy's sword had marked his thigh. Truly it boded ill for England's heir apparent, with the rebel Hotspur hot to spill his blood and standing on the verge of triumph.

But Prince Hal, as he was known, would fight unto the last. He shifted his weight to his uninjured leg, preparing to stand as best he could throughout the next exchange; for Percy was every bit as bold and fierce as his reputation boasted. Unfortunately, Hal did not retain his balance long; but nor, for that matter, did Hotspur.

Before they could come together, howling winds swirled up around them on a sudden, so powerful it knocked both young warriors to the ground! The sheer force of it stole Hal's breath away, and he tucked his face behind his arms to shield his eyes from the onslaught. But then, just as suddenly, all was quiet.

Hal tentatively raised his head, blinked multiple times…and frowned. Though he still lay atop the crunch of autumn leaves, the muddy ground beneath him had become grassy and dry, and pale sunlight filtered through the lofty pine trees that towered above them on all sides. The abrupt absence of the clamor of battle left an eerie stillness in the air.

In his periphery, he saw Hotspur rise unsteadily to his feet nearby. They were alone.

"What the devil?" Percy's sharp blue eyes darted all around in confusion. "This is not Shrewsbury. Where in God's name are we?"

"God alone knows," Hal murmured in amazement, leaning upon his sword to help him stand. "What other power could have brought us from one place to another on an instant?" He eyed the other man warily, but Hotspur did not appear inclined to continue their fight immediately. Even for him, such fantastic events were worthy of a pause.

Percy then tilted his head to one side and exclaimed, "Listen! There are horses coming."

Hal tried to focus around the hum lingering in his ears, yet he could identify the approaching party only moments before half a dozen riders broke through the pines and into the clearing. Horses swerved, stamped, and snorted upon finding their path blocked. Those mounted were equally surprised, although they made quick work of encircling the two Englishmen and cutting off any escape. They were clearly hunters, armed with bows and deadly swords, and some of them carried spears.

"Well now," their apparent leader spoke after a pause. "This is a curious take from the day's hunt."

"Are we your prey, that you should hunt us?" Hotspur retaliated at once.

The stranger's eyebrows rose in surprise. "No, but we can make trophies of you nonetheless."

The man (for so he seemed) possessed flawlessly fair skin and long raven-dark hair, as did the majority of his companions. He wore fine clothes all in black, and even the ornate circlet set about his brows was wrought of a dark metal. His sable steed pranced with stately pride equal to its master's bearing. The only color was upon the horse's decorative trappings of red and silver, which could also be found in various places among the other riders. Hal presumed those to be the colors either of their nation or of their lord's family, whoever that might be.

They were all striking, particularly in the brightness of their eyes; but the speaker carried an air of authority which his comrades lacked. There seemed almost a sort of glow about him, despite his black apparel. Last of all, Hal noticed the ears, and his wonder grew. For they were pointed, in a manner unlike anything found among men. Could it be possible, then, that these riders were not human?

Meanwhile, Percy glowered at each of the hunters in turn, no doubt resenting their elegant dress and immaculate cleanliness compared to his muddied and bloodied state. Hal knew his own condition to be even worse.

"Who are you?" he asked aloud, to which the stranger answered directly.

"My name is Caranthir. My brothers and I are princes among the Noldor – Fëanor's seven sons, of whom I am the fourth."

That last statement caught Hal's interest anew, and he nearly smiled while replying, "Then this is a remarkable coincidence indeed! For my grandfather, John of Gaunt, was likewise the fourth of seven royal sons."

"All of them dead now, I assume."

England's Crown Prince frowned. "Yes – the passage of time will do that."

"Only to you." Caranthir set his unwavering gaze on Hal, who shivered under the inexplicable _light _of that regard. "But it appears we have interrupted your bloody pastime. By all means do continue, that my companions and I might enjoy theater as well as sport this day. After all, your lives are short, and we shall not lament the loss of one. The victor we will take with us for questioning."

The leash on Hotspur's temper finally snapped. "Why do you talk as if we were inferior to you? I see no difference between us save your impish ears! _What _are you, then?"

Surprisingly, Caranthir smiled, though there was little warmth or comfort in the expression. "We are Elves – immortal beings, the firstborn Children of the world."

The jaws of both Englishmen dropped in unison, but Percy recovered his voice first.

"Elves? The stuff of fairy stories and Owen Glendower's ramblings!"

Hal ignored him and instead pressed, "What do you mean 'immortal'?"

The Elf's unsettling smile broadened. "We remember a time before the sun and moon, when unsullied stars alone lit up the sky; and we can recall the greater Light from which the sun and moon were sprung, many centuries ago."

Hal's weary mind reeled dizzyingly. How could this be, unless they had fallen into some hell-born hallucination? A very real hallucination, who could order their deaths with a nod of his dark head.

"Yet you are born of mothers, as we are?"

"Born and grown to maturity, yes, but we do not die as you Men do. Age and sickness do not assail us, although our bodies are of this earth and can be slain – albeit with difficulty."

Hotspur brandished his still-drawn sword and challenged, "I will prove that here and now if ye be 'man' enough to fight me!"

"Be quiet, you fool!" Hal hissed at him. "Do not provoke them. Upon my life, do you not mark their advantage over us?"

"Listen to your friend," Caranthir condescended. "He perceives the danger more keenly than you do."

"He is no more my friend than you are, and I know you not. The Devil take thee! Unless you are come from him already?"

What color remained in the Prince's face vanished; he grasped the other by the arms and sought to restrain his renowned wrath. "Peace, Percy, for God's sake! Methinks a reluctant truce might serve us better in this hour than unhappy blows, both with these Elves and with each other. For a time, at least."

Hotspur shrugged off the touch, scowling fiercely, but his violence was stayed.

Caranthir observed their interaction with the open amusement of one well acquainted with such scenes. "That is a wise suggestion, coming from one whose face is pale for want of blood. You have the look of warriors lately removed from a great battle. Where is it?"

Hal then searched out his companion's gaze and faltered. How were they to explain this?

He began slowly, "I know only that we are not where we used to be. Pray, tell me, where are we now? Are we no longer in England?"

"England?" Finally it was Caranthir's turn for bewilderment. "What is that?"

"Tis a glorious island in the northern seas," Percy supplied proudly. "The home of honor and of all brave hearts!"

The impassioned account of their homeland was befitting of a prince, and Hal winced in his heart to hear it spoken by his foe.

"And was it in this England that you found so much earth with which to coat yourselves? The skies here have been dry of late." But Caranthir's patronizing turned more sober as he divulged, "In the broadest sense, you are in Beleriand. The Sundering Sea lies west of these lands, and the only island of note in those waters is the Isle of Balar, southward off the mouths of the River Sirion."

"You must be mistaken; surely there are some lands of renown in the North."

The Elf's piercing eyes narrowed. "There are neither waters nor islands in the North; only the King of Darkness, his servants, and his wars. Certainly you know of _Him,_ and have doubtless come hither on his errands. For in these lands, all Men serve either an Elf lord or the Dark Lord – especially men dressed for war as you are_._"

"Nay, do not think it so!" protested Hal at once. "This Darkness you speak of holds no power over us, and we would fight against it unto death."

"How did you arrive here, then, from such a faraway isle as you claim?"

"In truth, I cannot say, other than that it was the working of some magic beyond our knowledge or control."

Caranthir frowned. "This is indeed strange, although it may be that some greater force has set these events in motion. If your thirst for each other's blood has abated, we shall bring you home with us to discuss these matters further."

"Or you could leave us to our own devices and be gone," Hotspur snipped defiantly.

"Alone and unattended as you are, you will not survive many nights in this wild country."

"Let us go with him," Prince Henry urged his countryman. "Remember, we know not where we are! Furthermore, if we were meant to come to this place, then perhaps these Elves were also meant to find us."

The other complied, but only amid much grumbling.

And Caranthir himself sounded no more eager when he said, "In that case, I suppose I should ask your names."

"I am Harry Monmouth of the Plantagenet bloodline."

"And I am Henry Percy of Northumberland, called Hotspur."

* * *

The "homeward" journey proved longer than anticipated, and Hal's strength waned quickly. Faint-headed and gasping for air, the Prince dragged his wounded leg behind him. He stumbled often upon tree roots hidden beneath a carpet of golden leaves, and only with a massive effort did he remain upright. A child just learning to walk would have been more proficient!

Despite the blood he had lost, he felt every beating of his heart echoed by a painful pounding in his head.

_"I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleedest too much."_

Oh, what a headstrong youth he was! Had he given more heed to his father on the battlefield, he would not now be in this predicament.

The Elves rode just slowly enough for the two Englishmen to walk in their midst, yet none of them had such pity upon Hal's injuries that they offered to let him ride in their stead. Percy would send critical glances his way whenever the Prince staggered or grunted too loudly in his pain – surely in contempt of his weakness and not in any degree of concern.

"How much farther? His wounds bleed still."

Hal looked sharply at the man beside him. What did Hotspur mean by calling attention to his languishing state?

"Wounds you gave him, I don't doubt." From the head of the party, Caranthir cast a momentary glance over his shoulder. "Help him or leave him, whichever you choose; but we will neither stop nor slow our pace, for we must reach Amon Ereb before nightfall."

Hotspur shamelessly rolled his eyes, muttered complaints under his breath – and hoisted Hal's arm over his shoulders. Shock rendered the Prince speechless, yet he could not deny that Percy's frame beside him was a welcome support as they labored onward.

Sometime later, with Hal still leaning heavily against his countryman, the travelers emerged from the forest and beheld a large, lonely hill in the distance. Fortifications atop indicated that they had come within sight of their destination; and Hal felt his spirit, along with his exhausted body, wilt at the prospect of a daunting upward trek. Would Percy's assistance continue when the Prince needed it most desperately? He would have fallen senseless long ago if not for this unexpected aid.

Fortunately, the hill's gentle slopes made the climb less severe, although Hal was still trembling with fatigue by the time they reached the summit. From there, he could see a great river off to the east, flowing swiftly southward. The buildings around them were sturdy and defensible, although Hal would scarcely have called them glamorous.

Hotspur evidently shared his opinion. "By my faith, this is no princely dwelling."

Hal would have berated him for this seeming death wish, except that he lacked the breath to do so.

Yet no violence came from Caranthir, save in the Elf's stormy countenance. "We have not dwelt here long. Many of us lost lands and kingdoms in the Battle of Sudden Flame some years ago, but soon we shall reclaim _all_ that has been taken from us."

Several more Elves appeared to greet them when the party finally came to a halt – mostly grooms to take charge of the horses, but also two attendants for Caranthir.

"Take them to the healers but keep them under close watch," he instructed with a nod at his captives.

Hal did not resist when sure hands drew him away from Hotspur's side. He staggered with his escort in a daze until they entered the infirmary, where a pungent herbal smell assailed his senses. His head swam, while his vision spun and darkened; he succumbed at last to the beckoning oblivion and collapsed like a boneless doll.

**Author's End Note: **The premise for this story was born out of the whole "seven sons" coincidence - simply too tempting to resist! For Shakespeare's brief summary on the seven sons of Edward the Third, please reference _Henry VI_ _Part II_, Act 2, Scene 2. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 2**

Prince Hal awoke to a foggy head and a downy pillow. There was no telling for certain how long he had slept; but judging by the faint red light outside the narrow window and the soft glow of candles about the room, it would soon be time to sleep again – which suited him just fine. He was clean and comfortable, lying in a pleasant room with only Hotspur for company.

Percy had likewise been cleansed from the mud of Shrewsbury and was now dressed in a simple tunic and leggings which had been provided by their hosts. He sat bent over a desk illumined by candles, his blonde head cradled in one hand. He was so still he might have been asleep, yet he looked up quickly when Hal stirred.

"How do you fare?" he inquired with eyes full of suspicion. "Is the fire of witchcraft in your blood?"

The Prince sluggishly sat upright. "I feel…surprisingly whole. As for my blood, I would never have known I had lost so much. If Elvish healing is a kind of witchcraft, then we must allow for its efficacy. Did you not also receive their care?"

"I had sustained no wounds that they deemed worth the curing."

Hal noted the other's smugness but was still too lethargic to take offense. "Before God, I am exceeding weary! Is there aught to drink?"

Percy gestured with his head. "That tumbler on the table there is intended for your grace's health. Myself, I should not trust one drop of it."

"Surely they have more entertaining methods of killing us, if that is their intention." Hal brought the concoction to his lips, and it tasted like the herbal aroma that still lingered in his nose. It refreshed his mind and settled his body, so he swallowed it all.

He then peered more closely at his companion, who was again staring intently at the papers spread out before him. "What do you study so closely?"

"Maps." Hotspur didn't look up to answer. "The Elves brought several for my perusal while _you_ slept."

Hal ignored the jab, only prompted, "And? What do you conclude?"

Percy ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and finally raised his head. "If the maps be true, I do not know these lands, Harry. I would expect the names to be different, aye; but by my troth, none of it is familiar! We are far removed from any oceans, just as Caranthir said, yet I cannot identify the continent. It is not Europe. I can only conclude that we must be either heaven's playthings or fortune's fools to be as we are now."

With that report, the dim lights suddenly seemed gloomy. Without a knowledge of where they were, how could they possibly plan or hope to return home?

"What else did you note after we were parted?"

"There is a strong force of arms here, to be sure. And this hill – this Amon Ereb, as they call it – is well suited both for watchfulness and defense, standing alone in the flatlands as it does."

Hal gave their surroundings another inspection. "Is this room to be our prison?"

"Whatever it is, we are meant to share it; the door is locked from without. Even so, I shan't complain for comfort – only for the company. And although you be a prince, and wounded, I will not lay aside my claim to half this space."

Hal frowned at that initially, until he realized the obvious: there was only one bed in the room, and it was large enough for two. He rolled his eyes tiredly. "Of course, Percy. I would not dare deny you that which is your right."

"Do you not fear that I will murder you while you sleep?" Hotspur's blue eyes gleamed, but whether in danger or simple mischief, the Prince could not decide.

The frankness of his own answer surprised him. "Nay, I esteem your honor too highly to suspect you of throat cutting. More besides, you have had ample opportunity already to do so, and yet I am still breathing."

His companion chuckled suddenly. "Well, they do say common enemies make strange bedfellows."

"That may be so, but are these Elves our enemy? I perceived more curiosity than hostility from Caranthir when we met. And if their enemy is indeed a Lord of Darkness, then should not their Enemy also be our enemy, as we are servants of Christendom?"

"Hmph," Percy snorted. "I think a shortage of blood has eclipsed your memory. If Caranthir did not show animosity at our coming, he did greet us with disdain – as if we were no better than the dogs that trailed at his horse's heels."

"He is an immortal Elf Prince; I suppose that endows him with a nearer right to pride than most."

"Wherefore did you not acquaint them with your title, Harry?"

Hal shrugged, recalling his thoughts during the encounter. "To what end? They do not know England and will not esteem her Prince. Telling them would have gained us nothing, except perhaps their scorn."

"Of which there is already an abundance." Hotspur grew pensive again. "When Caranthir first came upon us, you sought to stay my rancor against him. Why? You could have let him kill me while my temper flew unguarded."

"An order for your head would have included mine as well."

"I think not. He wanted questions answered, and one prisoner will suffice for that. Why else did you interfere?"

Hal pondered that a moment. "For the same reason you helped me on the journey when I least expected it. Because as dire as our situation may be, it would only be made worse if either of us were here alone."

"Perhaps – or it may be that there is little profit in our deaths if no one in England knows of it. Now get thee over; I am weary from the battle, too."

* * *

Later the following day, an Elf whom they did not recognize came to summon them, stating, "You will both follow me, for our lords desire some conference with you."

"Lords? Heaven help us! No world needs more than one Caranthir."

Hotspur had whispered, of course, but Hal could perceive at a glance that their escort had overheard him. He would have to warn his companion later about the superiority of Elvish hearing.

With the Crown Prince limping but slightly now, they followed their guide to a dining hall where Caranthir and two other Elves awaited them. Hal found himself smiling unexpectedly, for the other two were twins – identical in every feature, the most notable of which was their red hair. And their expressions were far more welcoming than that of Caranthir, who introduced them.

"Men of so-called England, I present to you my youngest brothers – Amrod and Amras. And no, as much as I might wish the contrary, there is no penalty for failing to tell them apart; they are well used to error in that regard."

Both Englishmen offered their greetings, and then Amras looked to his elder with a grin.

"You were right, Brother; they do not have the look of mighty men."

To which Hotspur, bristling, instantly retorted, "And you do not have the look of brothers."

"Their auburn hair is trait inherited from our mother," explained Caranthir. "I take more after our father."

"Then I see the fairer lot fell to your brothers."

Percy's remark solicited a sneer from Caranthir and satisfied smirks from the twins.

"How very insightful!" Amras exclaimed. "Best not to tell Celegorm who's fairest, though; he does get sensitive about such things."

"Your accents are strange," Amrod addressed the newcomers thoughtfully, "yet you are speaking the language of the Sindar, which our people also have adopted. Where did you learn it?"

Hal was momentarily at a loss for words. "I beg your pardon? Neither of us know any sort of Elvish language; we did not even know Elves existed until yesterday. How can we be speaking your native tongue?"

"I know not, but you are doing so most fluently."

Hotspur shook his head, beginning to pace restlessly. "This must be a foul magic – witchcraft of the worst kind!"

"Or divine interference," suggested Amrod, "for no power of the Eldar, however great, could have accomplished this. Perhaps it was the will of the Valar that summoned these men from their lands to our aid."

"Or to our detriment," Caranthir countered sourly. "What reason have we to expect help from the Powers?"

But Amras disregarded his sibling's cynicism. "Brother, you will be travelling to Himring in a matter of weeks. Perhaps these strangers should accompany you, so that others might hear their wondrous tale."

Caranthir frowned deeply. "Amras, you know the purpose of my journey there, and that I am not likely to tarry long before returning hither. Our eldest brother has a heavy task at hand, and he may not look kindly upon these sudden newcomers."

"Or he may welcome them gladly as two strong men at arms. If he is not pleased by their coming, he can easily dispose of them himself – which ought to satisfy you."

"Very well," the other conceded with a sigh. "If that is the speediest way to be rid of them without offending you, my little brothers, then so be it. I will write to Maedhros before our going and give him proper notice."

"Good, it is decided." A pleased Amras then turned back to their guests. "Now come, you must both sit and eat. This long without sustenance, your strength must be short indeed."

That much was true! They had been given some food that morning, yet Hal still felt as though he was a full day lacking in meals. Perhaps Elves could endure for longer on less intake than Men required.

Caranthir poured them generous goblets of wine, too – a rich, heady red wine.

"Have a care," cautioned Amrod. "I expect this drink is more potent than whatever you find typical."

Prince Hal valiantly resisted the urge to scoff. Personally, he felt more at ease in a tavern than in a palace, and Hotspur was no stranger to the strength of England's northern brews. Together, they would prove that Englishmen could hold their drink as well as any Elf!

* * *

From personal experience, Hal knew very well the symptoms of a hangover – but never had he felt them to such extremes, not even after his worst bouts of drinking alongside Poins and Falstaff. Apparently Elvish wine was more potent than tavern ale, after all. He instantly regretted opening his eyes, cursing the ray of sunlight that shone directly into his face.

He found himself lying fully clothed on the bed (atop the covers rather than under them), with his limbs all askew and his cheek pillowed against Percy's calf. His volatile countryman, still lying in a stupor, was in precisely the same condition. Hal could not recall how or when they had gotten here, but he would long remember the undignified fashion in which his head spun and his stomach heaved.

He lay there battling the sensations until Hotspur was finally roused by his own pounding head.

"Damn Caranthir!" Percy muttered through gritted teeth. "The knowledge that we are suffering right now must bring him pleasure. I propose we never speak of this incident again."

"And I propose we take only one glass henceforth," added Hal.

Shortly thereafter, Caranthir himself paid them so brief a visit that he never left the doorway. "And how are your collective heads this morning? Or afternoon, rather?" He did not wait on their response, for he had seen plenty to his satisfaction, but went immediately on his way.

Smarting now with wounded pride, Hotspur momentarily forgot his headache and growled, "By the mass, I can endure no more of his arrogance, and I'll be his prisoner no longer. Let us make our escape now and be gone!"

"And go wither, exactly?" Hal reasoned, striving to be the patient, practical one. "If leaving this place means possibly straying into the clutches of a Dark Lord, then I would sooner stay."

Percy shook his head, only to grimace painfully and raise a hand to his throbbing temple. "I could try my chances anywhere, if only to be free of this haughty Elf Prince!"

"My overbold friend, does the choler in your blood never cool?" Hal smiled almost fondly, despite his chiding words. "We are grossly outnumbered here. And even if it were not so – say it were we two against the ginger twins alone. Even then I cannot expect our strength in arms would prevail. Speaking of arms, whatever became of our weapons and harness?"

"Taken upon our arrival, of course, and now withheld from us. Otherwise we could renew our battle, Princeling."

"For what purpose? We have neither family nor kingdoms to divide us here. But tell me truly, did the lords convey my challenge to you on the field at Shrewsbury? If yes, then wherefore did you not accept?"

"They told me of it," Hotspur admitted. "But how was I to think the challenge earnest, given your reputation? Furthermore, I thirsted for stauncher blood than yours."

Displeasure creased Hal's brow. "Even if you do not deem me an opponent worthy of your name and skill, our single contest would have spared a great many lives. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Those men had come for war; it would be unjust for me to deny their chance at glory."

"Your own chance at glory, you mean."

Hal's disgust with that response was tempered only by a grudging appreciation that Percy had spoken his thoughts honestly. That was more than could be said of many a nobleman in the English court.

**Author's End Note: **As you've probably noticed, I'll be sticking with the Sindarin rendition of Elven names in this fic for simplicity's sake. The poor lads from England are confused enough as it is, without having to remember three names for every Elf they meet. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**Author's Note: **Thanks to the guest reviewer who lent me some urgency in getting the next chapter ready. I appreciate it!

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 3**

It no longer surprised Hal to be rudely awoken from his slumber. Such had transpired nearly every night of their two weeks at Amon Ereb, for Percy's dreams made his repose uneasy at best and violent at worst. More than once, the Prince had even woken to hear his companion pacing the length of their darkened room. He wondered if it was always so, and if Hotspur's mind was perhaps as restless as his temperament. If that was the case, then Hal did not know who was more to be pitied: Percy himself or his perpetually tired wife.

Rubbing wearily at his eyes, he sat up and gazed at the man tossing fitfully beside him. Even in sleep Percy appeared angry, with drops of cold sweat beading on his brow. With what monsters or fantasies did he contend, in that twilit land betwixt waking and sleeping?

A lone owl hooted outside beneath the autumn moon. Dawn likely was not far off, and Hal suspected he would now lie awake anticipating its arrival. Until recently, he had believed himself to be a heavy sleeper – believed wrongly, it would seem. He determined to confront Percy about this pattern the next day, even if doing so might prove tempestuous.

He waited until after breakfast to broach the subject and decided on a direct, albeit generic, approach. "Tell me, Percy, have you ever known anxiety when sleeping?"

He needed elaborate no further, for Hotspur at once threw up his hands and exclaimed, "Must I now suffer this kind of talk from you? Zounds, you are as tiresome as my wife!"

"I expect she is only tiresome because she's _tired_ – both literally and figuratively – of being collateral damage whilst you battle your nightly phantoms."

"At least she speaks from concern of heart; _your_ only concern is a night's unbroken rest!"

"You would not trust my concern even if I gave it," Hal argued. "What if my interest was to help in any way I could?"

"You can help by leaving me in peace!" Hotspur snapped with finality.

Perhaps Hal should have left the matter alone then; yet their discussion had prompted another, more tentative question, and he asked softly, "Do you miss your Kate?"

Percy hesitated, momentarily taken aback. "Well, she's fairer company in bed than you, that's certain," he retorted, at which they both indulged in a sudden laugh that effectively dissolved the tension of their dispute.

Hotspur continued, "Speaking of fair company, never have I seen so much beauty in so little space! The loveliest damsel in Europe could scarcely hold her own among these Elves. When did you think to marry, Hal?"

The Prince offered an indifferent shrug. "Whenever the power of my father or the crown demanded it, I suppose."

_His father_…

A painful lump settled in Hal's throat. Despite a strong performance upon the field of Shrewsbury, King Henry the Fourth had not been in the best of health when last his son had seen him. Had he ultimately left the battle unscathed? Had the King's power overcome that of the malcontent Northumberland? But rather than venture into those murky waters with Percy, Northumberland's son, he pondered aloud:

"I wonder if our fathers are alarmed by our sudden disappearance, and how many times they have searched for us among the dead. What else can they conclude but that the Prince of Wales and gallant Hotspur were both slain?"

"They might think us each prisoners of the opposing side, although that would be disproved soon enough."

"Neither of those aged men need more grief or worry laid upon their shoulders." Hal sighed heavily. "I do wish I could see my father, even if only for a moment in a dream, to tell him I am alive and well."

"For the present, at any rate," countered a grim Percy. "Forget not that next week we are setting out for Himring with Caranthir; and if more of his brothers await us, there is no foretelling the manner of our reception. But all of England knows you see more of vagrants and drunkards than you do your kingly father, Harry. Why start thinking about him now?"

Hotspur paused to allow a response which did not come. "Well?" he pressed at length. "Do you not owe me an answer for that?"

Hal bowed his head, subdued. "Your words strike too near the truth, and so I am silenced."

_"Not an eye but is aweary of thy common sight – save mine, which hath desired to see thee more."_

Too late did he understand the consequences of his choices. Before that confrontation in the throne room, Hal had given no thought to the chance that King Henry might simply want to see his firstborn son, as indeed any father would. Their encounters of late had been more like rare battles which the entire nation gathered to observe. The Prince had certainly intended to redeem his honor at Shrewsbury, but now he had lost the means of reconciliation.

And crowning his regret was the grave and growing possibility that he might never see his father again.

* * *

The day designated for their departure arrived with a frosty chill in the air. Yet while the days grew steadily shorter and colder as autumn waned, their travelling party expected to reach Himring ahead of any harsh winter weather. Contrary to the fashion of their arrival, the Englishmen would be provided with horses for this expedition. Even their armor and weapons would accompany them – both for their protection on the road and because, as Amras had stated, "I am sure our brother Curufin will want to examine them."

Not knowing if their paths would cross a second time, Hal bid farewell to the twins with genuine regret and a hint of sorrow, for they had been pleasant and obliging company over the past weeks. Then he and Percy were introduced to another human who served Caranthir and would be joining them with a few of his kinsmen as part of the Elf Prince's escort on the journey.

Uldor was his name, a man of dark complexion and combative manners. Truly, Hal could not envision a vassal better suited for Caranthir's lordship.

"I do not like his looks," Hotspur confessed afterward, glowering in the direction Uldor had gone.

"Nor he ours, by the looks he gives us," agreed Hal, "but we shall have to exist peaceably with him as best we can."

They travelled briskly northward, never lingering in one place for long, and Hal sensed that their Elvish companions were ever wary of threats along the way.

"This journey from the South is less perilous since Maedhros reclaimed the Pass of Aglon," explained Caranthir. "But in these dark days, danger is never far, and foul creatures still roam abroad."

Even so, one or two Elves would always find occasion to sing when the party halted at night to camp. Hotspur would then roll his eyes and grumble, pulling his blankets over his head and pretending to sleep; but Hal suspected that his countryman often stayed awake to listen, just as he did. For who indeed could not be touched by the wonder and beauty of it? Despite the cold and the omnipresent threat of danger, there was something perfectly sublime about Elvish songs beneath the stars.

Yet the stars themselves presented a dilemma, for they were the same as those that shone above England.

"It cannot be possible!" ranted Percy in helpless frustration. "Elves and monsters do not exist in our world, so how can the heavens be unchanged?"

"Perhaps this is somehow our world, and the Powers that brought us here gave us a journey through time, as well," Hal conjectured, more almost to himself than his companion. Incredible as it was to see familiar skies in Beleriand, he strangely found that he was not surprised. He eventually sought out one of the friendlier Elven guards, from whom he learned new names and legends for many constellations.

On a misty morning over halfway through the journey, they finally left the forests behind and emerged onto a level plain; and as the fog lifted, they espied a hazy line of hills in the distant north. The March of Maedhros, Hal knew that region to be called, and therein lay Himring, reputed as the mightiest Elven stronghold in the East. According to Amrod, it alone in this part of the world had withstood the onslaught of the last great Battle, and many survivors had flocked there for refuge.

Now the hoary fingers of winter clutched at the land, and the coming days were marked by the season's inaugural snow flurries – never enough to hinder the travelers, but enough to set the cold in men's bones. Not that the Elves seemed affected by the dropping temperatures; they kept singing just as before, content and uncomplaining, even as their mortal comrades donned additional blankets and cloaks. Percy groused under his breath that, of course, the hardiness of Elves was just one more indicator of their inherent superiority.

The biting, whipping winds were intense for everyone, however, when they came to a narrow passage in the hills. Sheer cliffs jutted skyward upon the western side, dark and ominous, and Hal had no desire to see what lay beyond them.

Riding next to him, Hotspur shivered and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Is this not the Pass of Aglon? I can understand the strategic importance, aye, but who would freely choose to live amid this wicked wind?"

"Two of my brothers dwelt here for several centuries," Caranthir remarked casually. "I don't recall that they ever complained about the weather."

"Will they attend this conference?" Hal queried before Percy could retaliate.

"That they shall, as will our cousin Fingon from Hithlum."

Hal recognized Hithlum from his and Percy's map study. It was a land to the northwest, naturally fortified by mountains; and now, like all northern territories, it perched upon the very frontier of the war.

"However," Caranthir went on, "I think it unlikely we shall see representatives from any of the other Elven kingdoms."

And Hotspur, never shy, pried, "Why is that?"

"Because lands in the North are grown wild and dangerous, and cowards will not dare the journey." But that bitter response had come too quickly, suggesting much had been left unsaid.

"Are all your brothers as cheerful as you are?"

Caranthir smiled grimly. "Only some of them."

Two days later, they finally beheld Himring itself – a mighty fortress seated upon the summit of the highest hill. Spirits among the party rose universally, for they had arrived without any conflict on the way.

"Impressive!" Hal exclaimed as they drew nearer. "No wonder it has stood firm through many battles; and yet it is still beautiful, as these Elves must be in all their works. But who would have known them to be such accomplished builders of stone and shapers of steel?"

Percy made no comment beside him, yet his eyes were wide in awe.

Indeed, Himring could have been described as a majestic palace as much as a formidable stronghold. Hal thought it a grander, better fortified version of Amon Ereb, decked with the same scarlet and silver banners they had seen in the South – the standard of the house of Fëanor.

Their approach was marked from afar, and another company of riders came forth to escort them the remaining distance. Hal felt the eyes of many sentries upon him when at last they rode through the main gate, and Elven guards bowed their heads to Caranthir as he passed by.

They dismounted outside the loftiest building in the center of the citadel, and Caranthir motioned for his English captives to follow him inside. He led them to a spacious inner chamber with roaring fires, where several exceptionally noble-looking Elves were already gathered; but the one who stepped forward first to greet them commanded more attention than any of his peers. Just as Caranthir had stood out as a prince among his followers, so this Elf stood out as a Captain among captains and a Prince among princes.

He was easily the tallest person Hal had ever seen, with handsome features and auburn hair that hinted at kinship with the twins whom they had left behind. His every move and look exuded regal confidence and strength, such that Hal nearly overlooked the one glaring weakness: he had no right hand. And given the rest of his physique, Hal seriously doubted that the deformity had existed since birth.

"Welcome to Himring," said the tall Elf. "I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor and head of that house. I understand you come from very distant lands indeed."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 4**

The many introductions which followed thankfully consisted of names Hal had heard at least once before. Maedhros had made the most dramatic first impression, of course, although England's heir quickly realized that none of the younger brothers were to be lightly dismissed. They all had hair of midnight-black like Caranthir, save one whose honey-colored locks distinguished him as fairer than the rest.

Celegorm regarded the newcomers with an arrogant amusement reminiscent of their first meeting with Caranthir, and he spoke with potent charisma equal to that of Maedhros. Caranthir embraced him very briefly in greeting and said, just loudly enough for Hal to overhear, "I hear you have been busy of late, in which our eldest brother is none too pleased."

The other's fine features twisted in a sneer, and he would divulge no more than to admit, "You could say that, yes."

Standing at Celegorm's elbow was Curufin, whose sharp grey eyes scrutinized the mortals with suspicion bordering on contempt. His stare was weighing, calculating; and Hal, shifting uncomfortably, had no doubt that this Elf already perceived more about Percy and himself than either of them would wish.

Compared to his younger brothers, Maglor was mild-tempered and extremely courteous. It would be an easy matter to overlook him amid this distinguished crowd, but Hal suspected no one could grow up in this family without developing a formidable backbone – even a musician, such as Maglor was famed to be.

"At last, we meet the rest of the Seven!" Percy concluded brightly. He then walked up to the last dark-haired Elf awaiting introduction and said, "Which means you must be cousin Fingon."

"Yes, indeed," interjected Maedhros rather sternly. "This is Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin – High King of the Noldor."

Percy bore the rebuke remarkably in stride, offering a bow that was only a touch extravagant. "High King, you say? Your loyal cousin failed to mention that."

"Somehow, I am not surprised," Maedhros sighed. He sounded strangely weary now, as though this were a topic burdensome to his ears.

Hal himself frowned to observe this King. In his eyes, there was no outward sign that marked Fingon as ranking higher than his princely kinsmen – nothing in his stature, his visage, or his raiment which was accented with blue rather than crimson. Even the silver circlet upon his head, though splendid, appeared no finer than those adorning the sons of Fëanor.

"Your high Majesty," he said with a bow, recalling his nearly-forgotten lessons on courtly decorum. Hopefully he could smooth over any feathers Hotspur may have ruffled. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. On behalf of England, our mother country, Henry Percy and I greet you and your esteemed kindred with all humility and friendship."

Fingon inclined his head graciously in return but said nothing. Instead, it was Maedhros who answered:

"You speak as one well-born. From Caranthir's letters, we already know as much as may be told concerning your unorthodox arrival in Beleriand. Unless there is aught you wish to add at this time?"

"I regret not, my lord. Our journey from Amon Ereb has only confirmed that we recognize the skies of this world, but not its lands. We can no more account for our presence now than we could a month ago."

"My brother tells me the two of you were found at blows. Are you enemies in earnest, then, or merely youthful rivals?"

Hal shared a brief, uneasy glance with Hotspur before confessing, "What could have been a friendship and should have been no more than rivalry has turned instead to enmity." At least, such had been the case six weeks ago; now, however, he could not name Hotspur an enemy with the same passion and certainty as before. He elaborated, "This is largely due to a feud that has developed between our fathers."

"More's the pity for it," Maedhros remarked, "as I perceive you could have prospered well in friendship; and perhaps it may still prove so, considering you have stayed clear of each other's throats all this time. Believe me when I say a true friend is worth more than the riches of a kingdom, even if he comes at the cost of a father's displeasure."

In his awkward efforts to avoid Percy's gaze this time, Hal noticed an unmistakably warm look pass between the Lord of Himring and the High King when the former had finished speaking. A true friend, indeed…

Maedhros went on, "You are here with your weapons, and I would see you put them to use. The two of you will spar against each other in the training grounds under our observation."

Hotspur balked at that. "What, now?"

"Why not? Though you be weary from the journey, I shall enjoy watching you overcome that, for I wish to gauge your resiliency along with your skill. In my experience, nothing reveals character as well as a good fight. Now come, follow me."

He led them all to the sparring grounds, occupied by a handful of Elven warriors busy honing their skills. They wielded dull practice swords as a just precaution, although numerous racks of sharpened steel swords lined the walls – all of them very long and exquisitely beautiful. Many were elegantly curved and singled-edged, others double-bladed like an English broadsword; just one would have been the prize of any mortal king's armory.

The Elven soldiers bowed at once upon their lord's entrance and retired to make way for him in the ring. But instead of leaving altogether, as Hal expected, they gathered with Maedhros and his kinsmen on one side to await the coming action.

"Do you mean for us to use these same training swords?" he inquired of Maedhros.

"No, you should take up your own weapons. They will be more comfortable for you."

Hal bit his tongue, skeptical. More comfortable in hand, perhaps – but more comfortable in the ring, with fearsome Hotspur standing across from him? An accidental slip could easily be feigned, resulting with the point of his sword buried in Hal's breast. Or the reverse might happen. What if the Prince, in his weary state, unintentionally wounded his countryman? It was not his wish now, especially in this strange place, to act with any malice toward Percy.

Then there was the matter of their audience, which appeared to grow every time Hal glanced that way; he could scarcely conceive of a more intimidating crowd to analyze his every move. For he and Percy had seen no action of any kind since the Battle of Shrewsbury, a condition bound to favor Hotspur who was ever ready for battle.

But soon the two Englishmen stood alone in the arena with their swords ready, and Hal was surprised to read his own wary suspicions mirrored in Percy's face. Hence, their exchange of blows began gingerly, until the realization of their shared caution helped put them at ease. The fight went quickly in Hotspur's favor, much to Hal's chagrin. The warrior saw his opening and struck – tapping Hal gently on the chest with the flat of his sword.

They both paused and looked to Maedhros then, wondering if he would be satisfied with that brief display; but he motioned for them to continue. They engaged again and again, each encounter more relaxed and limber than the one before. It seemed to Hal that their show of skill improved as their trust in one another's restraint grew. He managed a hit just once, while Percy gained three more.

By now they were gasping and laboring under the physical strain, and Hal felt he could not go another round. He was ready to wilt from this prolonged exertion, but Percy appeared rather to thrive on it. Despite the exhaustion, his blue eyes gleamed with the joy of activity and struggle.

At last, Maedhros nodded his approval of their demonstration. "That is enough!" he called. "I will tire you no further. It was pleasing to see you apply yourselves in earnest, after a hesitant beginning."

Percy, grinning, turned to where their host stood apart with his kin and announced, "Perhaps next time I can try my hand against one of you."

The corners of the Elf's mouth twitched upwards. "Perhaps, young Percy. I daresay a few of my brothers would be all too happy to oblige you. But for now, off to bed with you. My aide will show you to your quarters for a well-deserved respite."

"Thank you, my lord," Hal said, bowing again to the venerable assembly. He hoped his manners would speak more loudly to his credit than his swordplay. "You honor us with your hospitality."

The crowd began slowly to disperse after that, until a command from Maedhros no longer allowed a choice in the matter.

"Leave us, all of you! We need no watching eyes for this." He lightly tossed a sharpened sword to Fingon, who caught it by the hilt with ease, before taking one up himself.

As they departed with the other Elves, Hotspur looked back over his shoulder and exclaimed wistfully, "By God, but I would kill to know the outcome of that contest!"

And though his own curiosity was no less, Hal winced in alarm at the ill-chosen figure of speech. "Really, Percy, you mustn't say things like that here."

* * *

It turned out the Englishmen would again share a lodging; but as Himring was better accustomed to housing soldiers, at least they now had separate beds. Hal dropped onto one immediately, barely registering their escort's admonition that they were free to roam about outside – within reason. They were then left to themselves, and Hal sighed contentedly at the luxury of a mattress beneath him. It felt divine, after two weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard ground.

"He may call it freedom," Percy murmured, "but I've no doubt our every move outside this room will be watched by many eyes. Eyes that see like falcons and shine like stars."

"Tis certain, they all have uncommonly bright eyes," Hal concurred.

"Marry, but by my faith, Maedhros is something different altogether! His gaze would have one believe he was born in heaven, and then journeyed through the deepest pits of hell. Such light and dark at once is hard to reconcile, much less to look upon. He is the kingliest of all of them, in my judgment, and methinks a crown would sit easily upon his head; but not perhaps a scepter in his hand, seeing as he only has one to grasp it. I wonder how he manages in combat…"

Hal sat up now to regard his colleague; until this moment, he did not realize that Percy had been equally impressed by Maedhros – perhaps even more so. Admiration verging on awe underlaid his words, not that Hal could blame him.

He replied, "Such is the irony, then, that Maedhros seems the only one concerned with giving Fingon his due merit as King. Caranthir made no gesture of obeisance to Fingon when we entered; and the others, when they interacted with him, did so as if he were their peer. There was none of the fawning or flattering one is usually wont to find in a royal court."

"Well, they are cousins, grown up all together. If they are of the same generation, roughly the same age by their reckoning, that might lead to a different dynamic than if they were dealing with an elder."

The Prince shook his head. "Even so, they would have grown up knowing Fingon was next in line to be their King. Would they not? Unless his ascension was unexpected…"

His words faltered then, ensnared in a quagmire of political intricacy. For his mind suddenly ran to King Richard the Second and the cousin who had deposed him – Henry Bolingbroke, now King Henry the Fourth. That tortured ghost had haunted his father's reign ever since. Were similar dramas of the crown enacted here among the Elves? But he dared not speak it aloud.

Percy must have guessed his thoughts; yet even he held his tongue, for he would sooner call King Henry a usurper than Fingon the Valiant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 5**

Earnest winter weather followed them to Himring over the coming weeks, and well did that fortress uphold the meaning of its name: "the ever-cold." Temperatures plummeted to bitter depths, and the surrounding landscape turned white with windswept snow as far as even Elvish eyes could see.

During that time, Hal gleaned that Maglor, Celegorm, and Curufin all had, like Caranthir, been ousted from the lands over which they had ruled; and at length they had been obliged to take shelter beneath the wings of their eldest brother, who had received them with varying degrees of warmth. He also heard mentions in passing of Curufin's son, who was alive by all reports but strangely not present with his father.

Hal had taken to shamelessly avoiding Curufin in group gatherings and had managed never to be alone with him. For the Prince would rather spend time in private with harsh Caranthir than with his younger brother who appraised a man the way he would a lump of shapeless silver. Reputation rumored that Curufin was the most skilled craftsman among living Elves – and that his tongue was no less masterful than his hands. Hal feared any dialogue with him might produce words cleverly twisted to incriminate Hotspur or him in the eyes of their host.

Thus far, Maedhros had proven to be more generous and lenient than Caranthir, allowing his mysterious guests the freedom of movement he had promised. Looks of suspicion from watchful guards nevertheless followed their steps, but Hal supposed that was only prudent and grew quickly accustomed to it. After all, he and Percy harbored no ill intentions toward the Elves of Himring. If anything, his countryman grew openly more enamored of their prowess and splendor every day!

In fact, it became increasingly obvious to Hal that Hotspur, while a fearless leader of men in his own right, was himself drawn to confident, charismatic leadership – an influence previously wielded by his father and uncle, and now, it would seem, by Maedhros. It drove Hal to wonder if he could ever be such a magnetic leader that Hotspur would choose to follow him. He certainly aspired to be, for strong leadership was necessary to attract and retain strong followers. And what king would not covet soldiers such as Henry Percy?

It did not surprise him, therefore, when they were alone in their room one evening, and Hotspur abruptly declared, "I want to help them, Harry."

"Help them with what?" he replied, pretending he didn't already know.

"Have you not seen it all around us?" Percy pressed him. "There were similar signs in the South, but here it is even more obvious to me. The Elves are preparing for war – for an offensive strike, I wager, well beyond the common vigilance. Maedhros will lead them, and let my soul want mercy if I do not join with him!"

"You are quick to espouse their cause," Hal noted with reservation. "We still do not know the history of their war or the extent of their grievances against the Dark Lord."

"I do not need to know it. For what sort of man could gaze upon this Elf Prince and not swear his allegiance? I might have done so the moment I first set eyes on him, and I have thought of little else ever since. It is no shame to serve our betters, though it is a pity his brothers should be so disagreeable."

But Hal thought of Maglor and the faraway twins. "Not all of them."

"Enough of them," retorted Hotspur. "Even so, I am determined to offer Maedhros my service, Harry. Will you stand with me in this?"

To meddle in foreign wars would never be his preference, yet Hal could not evade a certain sense of inevitability. For his comrade was set in this course of action, and whilst they both remained in Beleriand, their paths would not diverge one from the other.

"Yea, Percy. I am with you."

* * *

They brought their resolution to Maedhros as soon as they could secure another audience with him and the other Elven royals.

"My lord, I do not like your brothers."

Fortunately, Percy's uncouth beginning did not unsettle Maedhros, who simply replied, "Few do, in truth."

A smile escaped Hotspur at that, though he quickly sobered again. "I know not what enterprise you undertake, but I am certain that you go shortly to battle. Our swords are strong to serve you in the days ahead, if you will have them."

The Lord of Himring waved his hand, dismissive. "We may have use for you tending to horses or supplies, unless you can give me reason to expect better."

"I am a man of action, my lord – a soldier proven in battle beyond my tender years! If you will not have me as such, then I entreat you withal to release me."

Curufin strode forward menacingly. "He will release you from your life."

"Then so be it!" Hotspur's blue eyes flashed. "For I would rather die crossing steel with immortals than live while they wage their wars without me. But by God, the strength of my arm just might prove equal to yours."

The crafty Elf at once laid hold of his sword, but Maedhros calmly intervened. "Stay your hand, Brother. I would we had more followers with his spirit. And do you say the same as he, Harry Plantagenet?"

Hal nodded his affirmation. "I do, my lord. Our hearts and fates are joined in this endeavor."

Maedhros smiled grimly. "Good, I do thereby accept your proffered service. But be warned: here we battle monsters as well as men, and Powers the likes of which you have not seen."

"My lord," Percy declared, undaunted, "we shall wear your colors proudly, and prove to you the valor of our English blood."

"I hope to find it so. In five months' time, the armies of the Noldor march jointly against our Enemy; you two will go beside me at the van."

"Wherefore at the van?" interrupted Caranthir angrily. "We have no shortage of mortal allies in this venture. Let them march with their own kind!"

"Their appearance in our lands is mysterious at best and treacherous at worst," Maedhros reasoned. "If they do intend some treason, I want to kill them myself."

And Hal knew he could do it, with or without his right hand.

Celegorm then remarked, half in jest, "Tis a pity Galadriel is not here, for she could read their thoughts to perceive if they speak truth or no."

"A pity she dwells in Doriath, where your name has become a curse!" Maedhros' rebuke came as sharp and swift as an arrow, a chastening to which Celegorm made no reply. They had clearly touched upon an important, sensitive topic to prompt such a fierce reaction from the eldest son of Fëanor, ignorant though Hal remained of the details.

* * *

"I am glad you did not fight any of them in anger," he confessed to Hotspur when they had left the assembly. "Else I should have found myself alone in this world after all."

The other man looked at him in surprise. "Would you not have been grateful for my death at their hands?"

"Indeed, Percy, I would not! For you are part of something dear that I have left behind and may never see again. I should lament your loss as I would mourn a friend." Hal had spoken without premeditation and was amazed to realize that he meant every word he said. It almost grieved him, then, that Percy appeared still to distrust him. "Even so, I do marvel that your temper hasn't gotten us both killed."

Hotspur snorted. "There is a chance of that yet, if I don't have someone to fight soon. Zounds, this inactivity is maddening! With a little good fortune, Maedhros will now allow us back on the training grounds."

Percy's hope was soon realized, and by the approval of their host, he began to spend ample time each day in the sparring arena. Hal would accompany him there at times, but not so frequently; and when he first picked up a sword of Elvish make, it was so light his arm scarcely felt the weight!

Yet the moment of greatest excitement occurred a couple of weeks later. The brothers had again gathered with them in the arena, and Hotspur issued an open challenge to any who would accept it. Hal could only grimace at his comrade's exuberance, knowing that someone's tender pride would be bruised regardless of how the contest fared.

Curufin volunteered first to be the mortal's sparring partner, but Caranthir would not hear of it, claiming, "I have been waiting three months for this."

"As have I," Percy countered eagerly.

Caranthir picked up a sparring sword, while insisting without care that Percy use his own sharp weapon from Britain. Young Hotspur did not object, and the fight began.

While the two combatants first maneuvered around each other, Maedhros came to stand alongside Hal and observed, "Your friend's fiery temper well becomes his company among my brethren. Honestly, I am surprised he has survived Caranthir's wrath all this while."

Hal smiled, thinking again of the twins. "I believe your youngest brothers are largely to thank for that mercy, my lord. But it seems to me you are very severe upon the rest of them."

"Would that I could be more so," the Elf confessed quietly. "I fear my hand is not always strong enough to stay their tempers."

Feeling bold now, Hal ventured in a whisper, "Might your father restrain them?"

Maedhros was silent for a long moment, his unblinking eyes staring straight ahead, until at last he replied, "While he lived, he encouraged them."

Meanwhile, in the ring, Caranthir had knocked Hotspur off his feet in a manner that would have been fatal in a true battle. He then waited patiently for his opponent to rise, and they resumed. Multiple times the scene repeated itself, and each time Hotspur stood to rejoin the contest with a broad smile on his face. At first Hal feared his countryman had gone mad – until he noticed that Caranthir's frustration rose every time Percy did.

Hotspur obviously didn't expect to win, given what he now knew of the Elves' skill, yet he gloried in the Prince's growing incredulity. Why did he come back again and again when he was so obviously outmatched? Caranthir's impatience soon grew to such that Celegorm enjoyed a hearty laugh at his expense, fueling Percy's dogged determination even further. Curufin merely watched the affair with a bemused little smile.

"Hold!" Maedhros finally called after Hotspur had lost his footing yet again. "No more of that now; remember, Caranthir, we will want him later."

The younger brother rolled his eyes and stalked off angrily, but Maglor assisted Percy to his feet with words of praise. "That was well done! You gave him a hard fight."

Hotspur nodded his appreciation, breathless and still grinning; Hal suspected the bard was being generously polite more than truthful.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:** Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 6**

"Your Majesty, I did not think to meet you here."

Hal bowed deeply to mask his surprise. Until now, he had only ever seen the High King in the company of Maedhros – never wandering the halls alone like this.

"I desired a time of private reflection," Fingon replied easily. "However, it does not then follow that your presence must be unwelcome. Come, walk with me a while."

The English Prince fell into step alongside the Elvish King, following his lead through a maze of quiet corridors. He waited respectfully for Fingon to interrupt the silence.

"By his looks and temper, I would judge your friend to belong to the house of Hador, such as those Men who serve me in the West. But you, I think, are more like to the sons of Bëor – quicker to learn and slower to anger."

The strange names made Hal pause a moment, then he responded, "Thank you, my lord, so I do strive to be. Unfortunately, I shame to say my actions do not always reflect my good intentions."

As he finished speaking, he glanced at the Elf beside him. Fingon's presence was weighty and powerful, but not as intensely so as the rest of his kinsmen. His demeanor was more personable and relaxed, and it seemed to Hal that the fire in his eyes warmed rather than scorched.

He resumed, "How long have you been King?"

"Sixteen years, although it seems but sixteen days. I still often feel that any kingly titles are intended for my father rather than me."

"The hollow crown is heavy, is it not? Even when it rounds immortal temples?"

Fingon nodded his agreement. "Indeed, it is a power that brings me little pleasure – only anxiety and grief. I would gladly forsake this title if somehow it would return my noble father to me. I am his successor, but I fear I shall never be his equal." He then studied Hal closely. "You face such a burden yourself, young Harry. Is this not true?"

Hal sighed. He had hoped to be more discreet, yet there seemed no point in denying it now. "It is true, yes," he confessed, "if ever we should return home. My own excellent father is aged and in ailing health. I know not how I shall be ready to take his place one day upon the throne – perhaps a day all too soon."

"In an odd way, I almost envy you, knowing that your time is near."

"My time to die, or my time to assume the throne?"

"Either." Fingon shrugged. "Or both. Only through fickle foresight do we of the Eldar sometimes have this warning, elsewise such events come always as a surprise for which we are unprepared. In all my years as a prince, I gave little thought to preparation for kingship, and in sorrow did I reap the consequence of my neglect."

Hal frowned at how near that account struck to his conscience. But desiring to know more of Fingon's ascension to the crown, he stated cautiously, "In my eyes, it would appear some of your cousins are more honoring of your position than others. Can it be that they object to something of your rule?"

"No ruler ever stands wholly unopposed. Tell me, Harry, are there those in your homeland who would claim your throne comes to you by dishonest means?"

The Prince balked. Again, he had underestimated Fingon's power of perception! He faltered, fumbling for a response and doubtless confirming that the Elf's probing shot had struck its mark; yet he knew not how to answer without calling into question King Henry's validity on the throne. It was as if the ghost of Richard the Second himself had bound his tongue in guilt.

Eventually, Fingon took pity on him with a knowing smile and revealed, "Maedhros is older than I, and he was rightfully High King of the Noldor after his father's death. But he waived his claim to the crown in favor of my father, and in doing so, disinherited the entire bloodline. It was a politically sound maneuver, although you might imagine some of his brothers did not wholeheartedly approve."

"I believe I can imagine which ones," said Hal, eager to hear more. "But why would Maedhros do such a thing? Surely his physical deformity does not inhibit his ability to rule."

A look of sudden pain distorted the Elf's fair face. "You must ask that question of him – if you are brave enough. I will not answer in his stead."

"Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to offend…"

"You need not apologize," Fingon consoled. "I, of all people, cannot fault you for curiosity and boldness. Only remember, in your own time, that a king must take careful heed of his company and his advisors. Maedhros is as shrewd as any of his brothers, and the truest of them all; I make it no secret that he is nearest to my heart in counsel."

Hal nodded slowly, contemplative. "But as he is your friend of old and one time held the throne himself…does this position not enable him to misuse his influence over you for his advantage? To advance his own agenda?"

The High King nearly rolled his eyes at the suggestion. "Many will say so, and some might even believe it. But there is no one I love more dearly or trust more entirely than my eldest cousin."

"Have you any children?"

"I have a son, painfully young in years. No older than you, I warrant, for he has not yet seen the passing of thirty summers and is still very much a child by our reckoning."

"You are correct in the estimate," Hal concurred. "And he is your heir?"

"He is the Crown Prince of the Noldor, but the line of succession would fall first to my younger brother, Turgon of Gondolin: he being the oldest of the house of Fingolfin, in the event of my death."

The English Prince thought that strange, though he refrained from saying so. In Britain, the young prince would have been heir apparent as part of the firstborn bloodline, regardless of any living uncles. Regardless, also, of his age at the time of the coronation.

Fingon went on, as though in answer to Hal's reflections. "I am glad of this, for it would shield Ereinion from a responsibility that he is by no means old enough to bear – for a time, at least. I cannot imagine a prosperous ending when one so young is crowned, and a fatherless prince becomes king too soon."

"Perhaps those that lose their fathers young take less pain at the parting, but also less wisdom," Hal suggested. "Having no children of my own, I find parenthood to be nearly as daunting a task as kingship; perhaps they are not so different. At least you, as a father, know to treasure the time you have with your child."

"I have not seen Ereinion in fifteen years," Fingon sadly replied, his eyes downcast. "He could not remain in Hithlum, not when the fighting has reached even behind our mountain walls. He is far safer now in the Havens; so until the tides of war are changed, I must trust in another for both the guidance and the protection of my son, no matter how it grieves my spirit. I hope fervently that all may be put to right when the next battle is concluded."

Hal's own heart ached in sympathy. "Have you glimpsed some foresight of the days to come, my lord? Of how our fortunes may fare?"

The Elvenking smiled suddenly, speaking lightly again. "I possess no gift for foresight. But I have triumphed over poor odds many times before and will do so again."

"And if this enterprise should fail?"

"Whether in victory or defeat, Maedhros and I shall stand together. As we have always done."

Once more, Hal's curiosity prevailed over his better judgment. "When you spar with your cousin, as I know you often do…do you beat him?"

"Oh, no," the other admitted, fondly and at once. "Maedhros always wins. And now it is time we returned, as I expect he is missing me."

Hal accompanied him to the busier parts of the fortress, only to slip away again in search of his countryman. How much he had to tell Percy!

* * *

Since swearing their allegiance to Maedhros, the Englishmen had become privy to the details of the Elves' pending assault upon Angband. Today they stood gathered around a map while their host and his kinsmen discussed the availability of allies.

"Cìrdan has agreed to send some battalions from the Falas that will march with my troops," Fingon informed them. "I can only wonder if he has told Ereinion of our plans. I sent envoys of my own to Nargothrond, although they did not appear to meet with any more success than yours, Cousin. Or perhaps you have received different tidings of late?"

Maedhros shook his auburn head. "Nay, I have had neither word nor commitment from any of the other kingdoms. Unless your brother emerges secretly from his hiding place, it is we alone who march with such allies as we have among Men and Dwarves."

"It will be enough," interjected Celegorm fiercely. "We do not need the help of cowards. Already this Union has cleansed the woods of Dorthonion and retaken the Pass of Aglon. Soon the Enemy will know how much more we can do!"

His words kindled a fire of pride and battle lust inside even Hal's heart; Percy must have felt it even more keenly.

"And how soon exactly?" questioned Caranthir. "What shall be the day?"

"The dawning of Midsummer, to allow us longest days and shortest nights," Maedhros answered. "In which case, Brother, you should not long delay your departure. I suggest you leave for Amon Ereb with your instructions as soon as the weather will permit."

"And are we to return there with him?" Hotspur's tone revealed how little that notion appealed to him.

"Not necessarily." The Lord of Himring looked back and forth between them. "What say you, Caranthir? Can you bear to entrust your prisoners into my keeping henceforth?"

Smiling wryly, the darker Elf replied, "With all my heart, Brother."

* * *

"What is it you think truly drives them in this endeavor?" Percy wondered aloud when they were later in their shared chamber.

Hal shrugged. "I cannot guess; yet I sense that they are well-nigh desperate for a victory and will not relent, although their committed host be less than half the hoped-for number. Rather like you, is it not? Charging forth at Shrewsbury while still awaiting succor from your father's troops."

"Yea, and I admire them for it, even if it leads to death," retorted Hotspur defensively. "The less help they have, the more honor and renown are to be gained. For Men, knowing that they must die, may embrace it bravely when their hour comes. Not so these lion-mettled Elves! Though death be not in their natural course, yet still they will stretch the fullness of their power from the east unto the west, inviting Darkness grapple with them from the north to south. Harry, we have this chance to fight alongside those who do not die!"

"But who can be slain," the Prince reasoned. "Forget not that they lost the last great battle and their former King therein."

Percy shook his head, pacing the room with restless energy. "All the same, just think of the immortal glory we can win by sharing in their struggles. Think of the tales we'll have to tell when all is said and done!"

Now Hal grimaced. "I have been giving thought to that of late," he confessed gravely. "If we ever do go home, Percy, we must say nothing of our time here. They will think us mad in England, for which we stand to be exiled or imprisoned – if not burned at the stake for witchcraft."

Hotspur finally paused at that, his pale brow furrowed in thought. "But surely we shall need some explanation for the duration of our absence; it has been longer than four months now. What should we speak if not the truth?"

"I do not know; I don't even know if time is passing the same back home as it is here. But if we support each other in a common account, perhaps all could yet be well. Somehow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 7**

Caranthir and his company left the following week for their long journey southward. Hal would not miss any of them, Uldor least of all, although it cheered his heart to know that the twins would be among the party when they next returned.

Fingon tarried longer, loath to depart, yet he could not delay the necessity forever. Final preparations for the battle required his presence in Hithlum, just as Caranthir's was needed at Amon Ereb. As a parting gift of sorts, the King requested that Maglor sing for an assembly on his last night in Himring.

Hotspur rolled his eyes when he learned of it and bemoaned, "Oh dear God, not another ballad-monger!"

"Content yourself, Percy, 'tis an honor," Hal rebuked him. "For all Elves praise the skill of Maglor, and this is the first we have been invited to hear him. Having offended our hosts often enough as it is, you might at least pretend to enjoy yourself."

But no rumor, however lofty, could do justice to the moment of inexpressible wonder when Maglor took up a harp and began to sing. In his nimble hands, the instrument became as a loom upon which he wove breathtaking images for the mind's eye. There was nothing like it! Hal sat enraptured, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of missing a single note. The lyrics were composed in an Elvish tongue of which he recognized little, yet that did not at all diminish the surging, powerful emotions which broke like waves against his heart.

Only one thing might have ruptured the dreamlike spell of Maglor's song, and to Hal's utmost chagrin, it happened. For Percy abruptly rose beside him and left in the middle of the performance. The Prince cringed openly at the shame, mortified by his comrade's behavior! With notable effort, he repressed an urge to follow the man and bodily drag him back to the assembly; tempting as that may be, it would cast an even poorer light upon them both.

He stayed to hear the remainder of the song, only to find that his enjoyment of it had waned. That fueled his ire even further, and the instant it was socially acceptable to do so, he withdrew in pursuit of his errant countryman. He found Hotspur in their chambers, his back to the door, and Hal wasted no time in unleashing a fury of harsh words.

"How dare you be so rude? Of all the hot-headed, foolhardy things you have done, Percy, this is undoubtedly the worst! I thought you admired these people and wished to rise in their esteem, not mark yourself as the crudest mortal of their acquaintance. And what's more, that was the loveliest song that ever I heard! By my faith, it could almost move a man to tears."

"Well do I know it." Percy's voice was duly flustered and ashamed, much to Hal's satisfaction; but when he turned around, there were wet tear tracks beneath his red, puffy eyes.

The Prince froze, stunned as though a blow to the stomach had suddenly robbed him of anger and of speech. Hotspur continued after a moment to fill the silence, shaking his head as if in disbelief of his own conduct.

"There was more of magic than of music in that tune, Harry; I would call it devilry, were it not so beautiful and pure. It held me fast in a web of enchantment, like a rabbit caught in a snare or a fly in a spider's thread. By God, 'twas as if all at once my heart remembered every pain it ever felt, and I could not soothe it unless I fled."

"Yea, I felt it also," Hal whispered – but not as keenly, it would seem.

The proud man in front of him wiped furiously at his eyes, as if he could brush away his embarrassment in the same motion. "I trust you are satisfied," he muttered darkly. "Now you can disgrace me anytime you like, with tales of how an Elvish lullaby made Henry Percy weep."

"Believe me, Percy, I have no such intention," said Hal, earnestly and far more gently now. Of all possible reasons for Hotspur's hasty retreat, this was the last he would have guessed. "Our feelings in and of themselves are not shameful. Maglor's song was intended to reach deep into the hearts of Elves, so it is no wonder that the souls of Men are likewise stirred. But your confidence is safe with me, and I give you my word that no one beyond us two shall ever know of this."

Percy held his gaze for a moment, gauging the depths of his sincerity in this unexpected grace. Satisfied at last, he offered his gratitude with a short nod and a shadow of a smile.

* * *

Dawn marked the hour of Fingon's departure, and the King's escort was all arrayed in his colors of blue and silver. Hal uncharacteristically rose before the sun, determined to bid Fingon farewell in person before he left; for ever since their private conversation, he had felt a deepening connection with and respect for the Elven monarch.

His search through torchlit corridors eventually led him past a window near the stables, and there from without came the sound of two voices he knew well – Fingon and Maedhros, deep in discussion. Hal paused, debating within himself. To stay and eavesdrop would demonstrate a lack of propriety better suited to Hotspur, but no more could he direct his steps away. Surely their keen ears had detected his approach, yet still their talk continued; perhaps they did not mind being overheard in this instance.

Pressing himself against the wall, he edged toward the window and the voices as quietly as he could.

"Always our time together is too brief," Fingon was saying. "When next we meet, it will be upon Anfauglith, with the armies of the Enemy crushed to dust between us."

"And with joy you shall welcome your son home again," Maedhros replied.

Then there was silence, and curiosity compelled Hal to peek out the window. What he saw was a close, lingering embrace: blue cape against red, all wound round with silver.

There could be no doubt now. This was indeed a private affair, in which an English prince had no business! Possibly the two were so engrossed in one another that they truly did not note or heed his presence. Hal quickly withdrew the same way he had come, and on a sudden, sorrow struck him with the thought that these two great friends might never see each other again. Such was always possible when battle loomed inevitable, but what should cause him to doubt so? He knew little of their opponents' strength outside of hearsay, and it seemed to him there must be nothing Fingon and Maedhros could not achieve together.

Fingon's contagious confidence briefly dispelled Hal's foreboding as the two later bade each other a proper farewell.

"Goodbye, young Harry," declared the Elf. "When the battle is done, you and your friend shall be rewarded with the full generosity of the Eldar."

Hal bowed to him deeply. "Your Grace has already been too generous in the sharing of your counsel and your trust. I pray my ears and my heart will prove fertile soil which bears much fruit."

"I am sure they will, for all things do, in their season. So the acorn grows into an oak – and the prince into a king."

Even so, the shadow lengthened again over Hal's heart as he watched Maedhros stare silently into the West, long after the High King's company had passed from sight.

* * *

Over the following weeks, Hal summoned his courage little by little to seek a private audience with Maedhros. It would be a tremendous gamble to speak as he desired, yet his prior talk with Fingon (not to mention his personal misgivings) had prompted many questions clamoring to be answered. His best opportunity, he knew, would be a seeming "chance encounter" with the Elven lord while Hotspur was occupied as usual in the sparring grounds.

So when he saw such a chance, he seized it, steeling both his nerves and his resolve.

"My lord, may I have a word with you?"

Maedhros paused mid-step, and it seemed to Hal that a smile flirted with the corner of his lips. "That you may. Fingon advised me to expect this of you eventually – Prince Harry Monmouth."

"A prince only in my own country," Hal deflected, unsurprised. "Here I am a stranger, surrounded by many princes far nobler than myself."

That ghost of a smile turned cynical. "Greater power does not always equate to greater nobility. You speak generously for one whose knowledge of us is limited."

"I know your brothers have upset your relations with the kingdom of Doriath." It was a statement rather than a question, and Maedhros nodded slowly in reply.

"And with Nargothrond, as well. There was never much hope of Doriath joining the Union, as their King has ever remained aloof toward our doings. Yet I had counted on the support of our kin in Nargothrond, and there, I fear, lies the greater harm." He sighed now, sounding weary and resigned. "But I must leave this. What's done cannot be undone, and I suppose things without all remedy should be without regard."

The Elven lord raised one coppery eyebrow at his guest. "You are more clever than the eye would have one believe, young Prince."

Hal bowed his head to mask a smile. "I am simply fond of observation, my lord, and I observe that your brethren cause you grief."

"I admit some of them can be…." Maedhros paused, searching for the appropriate word. "A trial."

"Yet you still trust their loyalty?"

"I trust in their obedience, as long as I am competent to command them." The Elf gave a wry smile. "My siblings despise weakness in others; unless, of course, it is something they can exploit to their own advantage – which they often do, and with great skill. They respond to strength, far more so than to sentiment or even logic."

"Then they approve of this bold strategy you employ."

"They do." Bright eyes glittered suddenly. "You think it too bold?"

Hal fidgeted a moment, unsettled by the intensity of that gaze. But honesty had brought him this far, and he would not deviate from it now. "To speak plainly, my lord – yes. With so puissant an Enemy as you claim, why go to him and offer yourselves as targets easy for slaughter? Are you not better defended within the shelter of your own lands?"

"I cannot deny it is a dangerous undertaking, and much blood will be shed upon all sides," admitted Maedhros. "But if we do not challenge him in a time and place of our choosing, then the same battle will be fought before the doors of our homes, at an hour that finds us less prepared." He shook his fiery head.

"Fingon's father knew all this, and he urged us years ago to such action as we take now. But most of us, my foolish self included, would not hear of it; for we shunned the cost of lives that must be lost, whether in victory or defeat. Had we – had I – given heed to the warning and been less complacent, a great many Elves and Men would be alive this day. Including my worthy uncle."

"Or he might be dead all the same," Hal interjected, "fallen in the very battle he urged rather than one that came at unawares."

"Who can say?" was the grim response.

Now came the time for true boldness and for words handled as delicately as an adder. "In regards to your uncle…I know only the precious little which Fingon divulged to me. So now, as one Prince to another, I must ask: why did you give him the crown that was rightfully yours?"

He braced himself for a verbal onslaught, an avalanche of passioned defense – but Maedhros only shrugged.

"Some things are more important than a crown: such as unity against a common Enemy."

"But what about stability for your people?" Hal pressed. "Did your decision not result in division and civil strife?"

"My decision _healed_ the strife among our people, and there is nothing of division in my heart now. I am the overlord of Eastern Beleriand, and as Fingon is my King, so he is the King of all who follow me. Any who oppose that shall answer to me long before word reaches my cousin."

There, at last, was the conviction and fervor Hal had expected! It sent a shiver up his spine and affirmed the truth behind Maedhros' words. Only one thing remained now to be said. "Of all the Elven kingdoms I have heard named, only Hithlum is vowed to march with you. Does the Lord of Himring feel no fear at all?"

The Elf's silvery eyes lost their focus, but the lines of his mouth hardened. "In truth, I have almost forgot the taste of fears…for I have supped full with horrors. I have no apprehension for myself in this endeavor, only for those dependent upon my leadership, should the battle go ill."

And Hal, remembering Hotspur's comments after their first meeting with Maedhros, whispered, "You have been to the fires of hell. Is it not so?"

"As near as the living may come, aye."

Then he would say no more.

**End Note: **While pondering themes for this fic, I was struck by the similarities between Maedhros and Macbeth as both characters reach the end of their respective stories. I feel one line from _Macbeth_ sums it up perfectly, but it's still too early in the tragedy of Maedhros' life to let him quote it: "I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Chapter 8**

Two more months passed, and the waxing summer saw a stream of allies flow into Himring – including Caranthir, with an army of Elves and Men at his back. Hal was delighted to see Amrod and Amras again, a joy evidently shared by Celegorm who greeted his youngest brothers most exuberantly. Caranthir, for his part, scarcely acknowledged the two Englishmen upon his return.

There also came companies of Dwarves from the eastern mountains, much to Hal's amazement and Hotspur's amusement. They were a stout, hardy people with thick hair and braided beards, but their eyes were fierce, and their weapons formidable. They bore broad shields, heavy axes, and shirts of chain mail finer than any to be found in England.

The sun rose red on the dawn of their march to war, and the two comrades donned their armor in such somber silence that it became more cumbersome than the steel upon Hal's shoulders.

"How came we to this, Percy?" he said at last. "The fields of Shrewsbury now seem but the memory of a distant lifetime. Will we ever see our beloved England again?"

"My heart bodes no, despite how much I might wish otherwise." Hotspur drew a deep breath then, his visage grimmer than Hal had ever seen it. "Eight months ago, Harry, I sought to kill thee in a minute. But now, if by heaven's grace we should 'scape this battle and this world – in England, you shall be my liege, and I shall be your friend for ever after!"

The Prince had learned by now that guile was not in Henry Percy's nature; nevertheless, the unexpected earnestness in those blue eyes made his throat tighten under a barrage of sudden emotion. "To that, my good Percy, I do heartily say Amen! You have become, and so shall be, as dear to me as any brother."

They moved to shake hands, but momentum carried them into a natural embrace instead. Hal almost laughed aloud at the irony of it.

"Tis true indeed, eight months ago our friendship would have been an impossibility; today I cannot even call it a surprise. Was this, then, the purpose behind our adventure here? A reconciliation from which all of England might someday prosper?"

"It may be so, but first we must encounter whatever nightmares the Enemy of Elves can summon. Oh, that a man might know the end of this day's business ere it come!"

Hal nodded sagely in agreement. "But it suffices that the day will end, and then the end is known."

* * *

Their host all assembled at the onset was by far the largest Hal had ever seen. Ranks upon ranks gleamed like a sea of silver, upon which the sons of Fëanor glittered as seven magnificent stars. Their scarlet and silver banners blew proudly in the breeze.

"Did ever the seven sons of King Edward stand so mightily together?" Hal wondered in renewed awe. "These Seven are like the gods of Olympus gathered for battle!"

Hotspur offered no reply, yet his eyes glinted with an eager light. War and glory beckoned to him now, a lure more enticing than the danger was repelling. But as the regiments marched forth, Hal looked back over his shoulder and felt in his heart that he would never again set eyes upon the high hill of Himring.

They journeyed north for two days and then halted, holding their position. Three days they waited in mounting tension, with the hazy hills behind them and a vast, barren field of ash stretching on ahead.

"The Battle of Sudden Flame must have happened here," a restless Percy conjectured, and Maglor, overhearing him, replied.

"In part, yes. This wicked desolation was once a green and fertile plain over which our cavalries rode in watchfulness; now it is a wasteland and a ruin."

Fortunately, the bard did not appear to harbor any resentment toward Percy for having walked out on his performance. Hotspur himself likely did not notice, distracted as he was with more pressing concerns; his endless pacing had left an unmistakable track in the dust.

"It seems to me fit only for a battlefield. So why the devil do we stand here idle? Our power is ready; our lack is nothing but our leave."

"We await Uldor and his following," answered Maglor. "They will relay the signal when it is time to move out. However, their reports so far urge caution, as much as delay irks my brother. I see he is as impatient to be gone as you are; maybe even anxious."

Finally, after tarrying one more day, Maedhros would wait no longer for a fair report, and he issued the order to rouse all troops for combat.

"At last, the saints be praised!" Hotspur exclaimed. "Ready or no, we have stayed too long."

Maedhros clearly agreed, for they marched swiftly through the night and so arrived at the battle just as a hazy sun broke over the eastern horizon behind them. Trumpets sounded, and standards were raised on high.

Already a great field of chaos and carnage lay before them. To the west, Fingon and the armies of Hithlum were surrounded by a black multitude of foes beyond count. But there! Even now, another resplendent host was breaking through the siege to come to their aid, like a beam of sunlight piercing the darkness.

"Who are these newcomers?" Hal called to Maglor, who still rode near them. "Surely the King did not leave so strong a force to be his rearguard?"

His words laden with joy, the singer exclaimed, "It is Fingon's brother – Turgon, King of Gondolin! Unsummoned and unlooked-for, at last he sends his power forth to war, arriving as we do in the very hour of need. His coming lends more promise to our success than I would dare have dreamed."

The rest of the Elves shared his sentiments, lifting their heavenly voices in wonder and delight at this unexpected fortune!

But before their descent into the fray, Maedhros drew his forces to one last halt, riding before them on his mighty steed; and while the Englishmen could see and hear him well from their place in the vanguard, Hal doubted their leader's words would be heard by all. But he knew not of the power in Maedhros' blood, for his voice was like that of his father in that hour, swelling in potency and carrying far abroad to all hearers. And Hal felt as he never had before that which Hotspur had sensed from the very beginning: the indomitable _will _of this Elven Prince who led them.

"Brothers and kinsmen – companions from ages past and strangers from lands afar, hear me now. No matter how great a victory our Enemy may account the Fourth Battle, it is yet a defeat to him in this: that we still live! And while we live, he shall know what it means to fear. I will not bid you look to your courage, for I do not doubt the valor of a single heart that follows the banner of this house. Rather I bid you think upon the fallen – on those whose charred bones and mangled limbs still shout for vengeance! And on this bloody, dawning day, as never before, may Morgoth rue the hour in which Fingon son of Fingolfin delivered Maedhros son of Fëanor from his grasp."

Here Hal expected Maedhros to draw his sword and point it toward the combat. Instead, the Elf held aloft his maimed right arm, and Hal shivered to suddenly understand the reason for Maedhros' handicap, as well as the cost of his "deliverance."

Maedhros went on, "We have many to avenge, myself not least of all. Every scar upon our souls, our bodies, and our lands shall this day be redeemed tenfold. So to war, my friends! To war, and to the King!"

The clamor of impassioned cries that arose in response was deafening, so much that Hal could barely hear Percy close beside him, shouting, "I would to God my tongue possessed his skill to stir up hearts with lofty words!"

The Prince said nothing, yet he took the demonstration deeply to heart, seeing what profound impact the well-spoken words of a commander might have unto his troops. Breath gave life to the trumpets once more, but Hal's ears echoed rather with the words Fingon had spoken months ago:

_"Maedhros always wins." _

The charge sounded.

* * *

Hal had heard much about "Orcs" whom the Elves detested so fervently, but even a skilled storyteller could not convey the depths of their terrible ugliness. Upon first sight of the monsters, he devoutly crossed himself and murmured, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!"

There was no time for prayers after that. The frenzy of battle and bloodshed descended like a red haze over Hal's eyes, and soon he reeked of foul, black blood. The shrill cries of the Orcs reminded him of a wild boar in the agony of its death throes; he would rather have faced the wild boar. Beside him, Hotspur swung his sword with zeal bordering on joy, so long it had been since his last true fight!

The simultaneous arrival of two new hosts proved too much for the Dark Lord's groveling hordes, and their lines broke, dispersing in a frenzied retreat northward. Joyous shouts of victory rang out from Elven armies in the east and west, and Hal was left marveling yet again at their leaders. Not only did the sons of Fëanor look like gods from Olympus, they _fought_ like gods from Olympus. Maedhros could have been Mars the Bringer of War or Michael the Archangel, descended from heaven in a blaze of righteous fury. Soon he would hew his way to Fingon's side, and the two friends would embrace in triumph on the field!

But then there came a rumbling and groaning underneath their feet, like the door of some great dungeon laboring to open. Billows of black smoke rose up in the North, smothering the sun, and a nameless dread stretched forth its full power.

First Hal heard the howling of ravenous wolves, enough to chill the heart of any man. Then, through the dark gloom, he perceived shapes of glowing flame that moved and grew – until he realized the flames were living beings, wrapped in shadow, and his courage faltered. How was mortal Man to oppose such evil?

"Demons of fire!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Is hell empty, that all the devils are here?"

Percy only shook his head, eyes wide, and whispered, "Doomsday is near. Die all…" But whatever more he meant to say perished on his tongue.

They watched the Demons turn west to assail that battlefront, and Hal's heart ached at once for Fingon. Almost to himself, he said, "Surely the Dark Lord has something equally horrible for those of us on the eastern front."

"Harry, look there!" Hotspur pointed, a disbelieving smile on his face.

Shocked, Hal followed his comrade's gesture. At first, he could not believe it himself; but nothing was impossible in this land of Faery, and at last he breathed, "By Saint George, it's a Dragon."

True enough, a great golden Serpent was winding toward them, spewing fire at his foes along the way. Like most English youths, the Prince of Wales had bravely fought and slain many a dragon in his daydreams; to witness the approach of one in real life was a waking nightmare.

He was not alone to think so, for the rest of the vanguard was already wavering, held in place only by the commanding voice and will of Maedhros.

_He could lead us through this_, Hal thought, taking heart. _If anyone can overcome this, it is he._

So indeed it seemed, for a moment, as the lines reformed behind their Fëanorion commanders. But it was not to last. Mayhem suddenly erupted on their southern flank, and the ranks splintered and shattered like glass falling from a height.

Only when he abruptly found himself fighting again did Hal know who or what was to blame for the madness – and it was no monster of the Dark. The men of Uldor's following had turned against their Elven overlords, cutting them down at unawares and unleashing panic and confusion upon the entire army.

And still the Dragon came on from the west, followed by a renewed host of trolls and wolves and all manner of vile creatures.

"Uldor and all his kin be damned!" Percy cried after slitting two men's throats in the same swipe. Hal had never seen his friend angrier than at this moment. Never had those blue eyes been directed at him with half so much venom as when Hotspur espied Uldor himself hacking through the stunned bodyguard of Maedhros.

An assassination attempt.

Without word or thought, the Englishmen rushed as one to protect their leader – but they could not reach him in time. Too many of the traitors stood between them, although Prince Hal and Henry Percy struck down their foes in desperate speed. By the time they had forced a pathway, most of Maedhros' guard lay dead about his feet – as did Uldor.

Maglor had reached his brother first and laid the false mortal low.

"Music must not be his only talent," gasped Hal in relief, pausing just a moment to lean against his sword. He had precious little time for respite, with the general army in a rout and the Dragon wreaking havoc not far away; perhaps he should have spent more time with Percy in the training grounds, after all.

It was then, as he raised his head, that Hal met the gaze of Maedhros, and time stood still around them.

Not a trace of heaven glimmered in those eyes now – only grief, despair, and an overpowering guilt. Hal forgot to breathe, and his stomach heaved, so painful and keen was the Elf's regard. It sapped the strength from his limbs, and he sank numbly to his knees with arms dangling useless at his sides.

But then Maedhros turned away, and the moment was broken. Percy appeared in his view instead.

"On your feet, Harry! What's the matter, man? The enemy is all about us, we must move!"

The Prince struggled to find his feet and his voice. "With all the talk of monsters, I did not expect to kill so many _men_ today."

"These men _were_ the monsters – treacherous cowards, all of them! Most are dead now, and I hope they burn in the deepest circles of hell."

"It matters not!" Hal shook his head, distraught. "The damage to our hope is done beyond redress. These eastern troops cannot be gathered into ranks again, and even if they could, they are now too few. Maedhros knows this; I have seen it in his eyes."

Yes, he had seen Death in the eyes of the Deathless, and in all his mortal days he would not forget it.

Hotspur, however, was not yet daunted. With gritty determination, he declared, "There may be hope for us yet. This foul Serpent drives himself like a stake through the heart of our power, dividing us from our friends in the West. While the Dragon lives, the field is lost; and our glory shall rival that of Saint George when we kill it!"

"What?" Hal blinked, roused a little from his despair. "You cannot be serious? Wait, Percy, for God's sake!"

But Percy was already off, charging deeper into the melee and cutting through everyone and everything that stood between him and the Dragon. Hal staggered after him as best he could, aware as his friend was not that they had separated themselves from what few allies remained near them on the field.

"Percy, stop, this is madness! You cannot win!"

He shouted the words, feeling the frightful truth of them in his heart; but still Hotspur drove ahead, and neither foe nor friend could stay him. He reached the Dragon well ahead of Hal, drenched in the gruesome gore of his enemies, and uttered his challenge:

"Here! Look on me, ye Devil's Serpent, and see your bane in the shape of an English knight!"

But the doom of this Dragon was to be written by a different man and a different sword. The Father of Worms turned his baleful gaze upon that proud warrior, and Hotspur ceased to move altogether, as one stricken by a sudden spell of malice. Then, quick as lightning, the Beast struck out his hideous head and sank his teeth, each one a deadly sword, into his unresisting prey.

"NO!" Hal had seen it all, but he was still too far behind to help. He would later wonder what Percy had seen there, in the eyes of the Great Worm; anything besides Death, as Hal had seen it in the eyes of Maedhros?

When the Dragon had tossed aside his latest victim, Hal rushed to his friend, already blind with tears. Desperately he laid hold of a dusty piece of discarded cloth, attempting in vain to staunch the flow of blood from Percy's many wounds. It was no use. The man's blood bubbled and hissed as it poured forth, attesting to the presence of venom from the Dragon.

Freed now from the trance that had bound his limbs, Hotspur opened his eyes, and his pain seemed eased as he beheld his friend. He spoke for the last time, "Oh Harry, my youth is spent…my body turned to dust. The cold hand of death lies on my tongue. This Worm has made me food for…" But the blood choked him, and those blue eyes closed forever.

"For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!" The Prince bowed his head and wept openly, heedless of the battle and the danger all about him. Harsh winds pelted his face with ash and battered against his ears, howling like a wolf of death come to carry them both away.

**Author's End Note: **"This Worm has made me food for worms." That was one of the earliest "revised" Shakespeare lines I thought of, and also the moment when I knew this story had to be written. Now there's only a short Epilogue left - like stepping out of Narnia. Thanks for reading!


	9. Epilogue

**Summary: **Neither Prince Hal nor Hotspur believe in magic. Or in the existence of Elves. They are about to encounter both. A Shakespeare/_Silmarillion _crossover. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing from the worlds and words of Shakespeare or Tolkien, both of whom are authors to be revered. Shakespeare quotes, paraphrases, and allusions from multiple plays will be scattered throughout.

**The Fourth of Seven**

**Epilogue **

The wind continued to rise in intensity, relentless and fierce, and Hal clung to Percy for fear his friend would be torn away in the gale. His eyes clenched shut against the swirling dust and ash – until the maelstrom abruptly faltered and grew still. Dank cold crept beneath his armor into his skin, and Hal opened his eyes. When he breathed deeply, a little cloud left his mouth in the damp mist. No such cloud rose from Hotspur.

They were back in England, returned to the exact place and time from which they had been taken. The sounds of battle still echoed about them on all sides; but no more was there the crackle of fire, or the shrieking of Orcs, or the fell roar of the Dragon. And the war-torn fields of Shrewsbury, which had before seemed such a nightmare, were now as a mewling kitten in the face of a rampant lion, or a mild rain on the heels of a raging tempest. The only greater grief this day was that his fellow Englishmen bled and died upon both sides.

Oh, beloved England! If such glorious battles and immortal kings could be undone by bloody treason, how could this sceptered isle hope for better?

Hal's mind reeled in a blurry daze. Had the sons of Fëanor escaped the slaughter? What had become of Fingon and western host? Was there hope for any of them? He would never know.

"Harry!"

That was his brother, Prince John.

Still deep in his sorrow, as well as a bit of shock, Hal did not respond right away. Was this, then, the reward for mortals who joined in the affairs of Elves? Everything had been for naught! With Hotspur dead, their blossoming friendship would now amount to nothing – except perhaps a wiser Prince of Wales. Hal's tears freshened.

"Harry? My brother, are you well?"

"Valiant Percy is lost…the field is lost…everything is lost!"

John knelt and laid a hand on the elder's shoulder. "Nay, Brother, do not despair. I tell you truly, the day is ours! And what royal praise will our King and father lavish on you for the head of Henry Percy, whom you slew."

"No, John, it was the reeking jaws of the Dragon that gave Hotspur these mortal wounds, and not my sword! At least he died with harness on his back; he would not have wished it otherwise."

"But, Harry, why do you shed these manly tears for Percy who was your enemy? You weep for him as for a brother slain."

Hal choked back a bitter sob. "In another world, we would have been as brothers. Say not that Harry Percy's spur is cold! His life lost is a loss of unmatched valor. Oh, that I could have a hundred Hotspurs at my side! Yet this, here, was our Percy. When comes such another?"

John frowned in displeasure. "Ill-weaved ambition hath wrought this fate for Henry Percy."

"His ambition was misplaced inside the Dragon's deadly maw! Wherefore did he try? He was mad to face the Worm! 'Tis certain he could not win, yet no more could he be stopped."

"What, Brother?" John sounded uncertain now – almost frightened. "What mean you by this talk of dragons? Does the bloody dagger now stab within your mind? Peace, I pray thee! Thou talk'st of nothing."

Hal bit his tongue, for this indeed was the very thing he had feared. Without Percy to validate his account, he would surely be labelled mad if he continued talking this way. Not a soul in England would ever believe his tale – or understand his grief.

He forced a smile through the tears. "Forgive me, Brother John. I was distracted in the rage of battle, but now I have remembered myself again, and all is well. I meant only that the Dragon, being the Worm of Death, has robbed us of this most gallant knight; and now two paces of the vilest earth shall hold our Percy dear."

John nodded grimly. "Glad I am of it. But, Harry, what is it that you hold to so tightly?"

Hal glanced down and murmured in amazement, "I might think it all a dream, but for this."

Only then did he note well the cloth that he still clutched in one hand, and his throat tightened anew when he beheld scarlet and silver. It was a tattered banner of the house of Fëanor, coated with the ashes of Anfauglith and steeped in the blood of Hotspur Harry Percy – the only keepsake of their adventure among the Elves, apart from precious lessons and secret memories which Hal always treasured in his heart.

King Henry the Fifth would carry that banner with him into every battle thereafter.

**The End**


End file.
